Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: The Rise of Osgiliath (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

15 July 2009 | 10405 words

Narsilion: The Rise of Osgiliath

Author: E. Batagur
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Faramir/Éomer
Rating: Overall NC-17
A/N: Many thanks to arwensong who did a fantastic beta read for this story. This is an AU closer to Peter Jackson’s final product than Mr Tolkien’s books.

Summary: This is the continuation of the AU Narsilion: In the Age of Men. Éomer, the former First Marshal of Rohan, makes his new home in Ithilien.

Archivist’s note: See also Narsilion: The letters from Ithilien

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Part 1

They were greeted at the east bank of the Anduin by hooded men wearing brown leather doublets emblazoned with the silver tree of the king on their breasts. They also wore black cloth masks over their noses and mouths, allowing only their eyes to show. They all bowed low as Faramir dismounted.

“My Lord Prince!” A man stepped forward before the others and bowed deeply. He pulled his mask down so that his whole face showed.

“Anborn,” Faramir said as he went to the man. He gripped his arm in greeting. “It is good to see you. I was told that your injuries were dire and your recovery doubtful.”

“The news of my demise was greatly exaggerated, my lord prince.”

“My lord prince… those words run strangely from your tongue,” said Faramir with a fond smile.

“Only in your ears, sire,” the man replied.

“I have grown too accustomed to you calling me ‘Hey pollywog!’”

Both men laughed. Éomer stayed a-saddle on Firefoot and watched this exchange. According to Faramir, they were not far from Henneth Annûn, which was a couple of hours ride from where they were. The men of the southern rangers stood now as their prince talked with his lieutenant. Éomer scanned the small crowd, noting that there were more than he first sighted. The dull green and brown uniforms made them blend with their forest surroundings.

A few of them eyed him over the tops of their mask. Éomer felt critically scrutinized. His instinctive reaction was to put up a bold and fearless defiance in the face of that scrutiny. He sat up taller in Firefoot’s saddle.

“They have told us that you would be coming from Minas Tirith and that you bring with you a consort!” Anborn said brightly. He looked past Faramir and up the length of Firefoot to smile at Éomer. “Lord Éomer, son of Éomund, Earl of Osgiliath, brother to the Queen of Rohan and her former First Marshal, we are honored to welcome you to Ithilien.” Lieutenant of the Rangers Anborn then bowed before him.

The man’s smile was warm and kind and under the circumstances Éomer could not keep up the aloof poise he had adopted. He softened his expression and bowed his head politely. “I am honored to be so received.”

Faramir had mention Anborn to him before. The lieutenant had been one of the men who had taken Faramir under his wing when he had first come to train with the rangers. The man, who looked to be in his thirties, was actually in his late sixties. Faramir had also mentioned Madril, his most loyal second in command who had died while fighting bravely to defend Osgiliath. There had not been many rangers left, and the war had dwindled their number even more so.

Anborn’s men escorted them beyond the Anduin.

“From here, my lord,” he said as they went beyond the river valley, “we blindfold those who are not one of us. This, of course, will not happen to you. From this day hence, you are one of us.”

“It would be insolent and thoughtless of the rangers to deny access to Henneth Annûn to their prince’s consort,” Faramir said softly. He smiled over to Éomer as he rode by his side. They were six riders and twenty rangers on foot. The men who rode with them were of the White Guard.

It was a bright day; summer had come after a tentative spring that had started cold but later turned glorious. Éomer, the former First Marshal of Rohan, now rode to his new home in Ithilien. Faramir and he had exchanged vows before King Elessar only a few days past in the city of Minas Tirith. Now Éomer was the Earl of Osgiliath.

The earl of a city that lay in ruins. For what it was worth, he knew it was a great honor, and he didn’t voice his slight apprehension. He knew it was meant to be a challenge from Aragorn. Osgiliath deserved to be rebuilt. Faramir wanted this more than anything, to honor the memory of his beloved brother. Nevertheless, Aragorn wisely saw that Faramir’s plate was considerably too full.

“I give you this title, Earl of Osgiliath, so that you may give your prince a noble and magnificent gift,” Aragorn had said. It was now Éomer’s duty to rebuild Osgiliath. He would do it for love of Faramir. Aragorn had obviously known that.

“Look there,” Faramir said pointing ahead. They had been following a river that connected with the Anduin. Ahead, the way led into a green canyon that was lush and cool. The path grew narrow and they proceeded single file. The horses’ hooves barely made a sound on the soft carpet of moss and sandy soil. It was a pleasant place, and Éomer noticed Faramir drawing in deep breaths of air with a look of contentment on his face. Éomer took in the air. It was clean and fresh with the smells of water, soil and trees. It was indeed agreeable to the senses.

They came to a rock slope that led up to a narrow crevasse. The path was a sandy spillway for the river during the flooding season. It was dry now. It had been obscured by the steep cliff it hugged. The men on horseback dismounted here and led their animals up. One of the other horses seemed nervous about the path, but Firefoot was unfazed. The charger followed without Éomer’s hand on the lead.

“Is he a mearas?” Anborn asked looking back at Firefoot in wonder.

“Yes, his father was Lightfoot, a descendant of Felaróf.”

“He is a magnificent creature.”

Firefoot was a magnificent creature, Éomer had to agree. He looked back at his dear friend and smiled. The horse whickered and nudge him forward in what appeared to be a playful motion.

“It is true that the mearas are the lords of horses?” Anborn asked.

Éomer often found it odd what these Gondorians didn’t know. But, then again, there was much he had not known about Gondor and its people and culture. He was still learning. To learn that most of the southern rangers were Dúnedain had come as a great surprise. The fact that his mate had elven blood in his lineage had come as an even greater surprise.

“The mearas live on the steppes of the northern frontier. It is said that they surpass regular horses the way elves surpass men. Few are domesticated. Those few are the companions of the royal house of Rohan. “

Anborn turned to Firefoot, addressing him directly in the southern ranger’s Sindarin. He then turned back to Éomer. “I told him that I had never met such a stunning creature before and I hope he knows that he is very welcome here among us. He too is now one of the warriors of Henneth Annûn.”

The small path at the hidden crevasse led back to a high-ceiling cavern, well lit with torches. It went on for a few feet before letting out into an even smaller box canyon with a pool fed by a beautiful water fall.

“Welcome to Henneth Annûn,” Anborn said proudly. “The horses will stay over there.” He pointed to a sheltered place beneath a long rock shelve, close to water and some small amount of grass. Men moved about in that area carrying tack and sacks to and from the rock shelter.

Firefoot walked off in that direction without further prompting and Anborn stood astounded.

“He’s tired,” Éomer explained.

Inside the cool dry caverns of Henneth Annûn, people moved about with purpose. It was much like Helm’s Deep in some ways, and very different in other ways. These caverns seemed moister than those of Helm’s Deep. There were many passages and chambers that went in several directions. One could easily get lost in Henneth Annûn. Whereas Helm’s Deep seemed massive, with vaulted ceilings, Henneth Annûn was more closed-in. Some passages, the men had to stoop for a few paces to get through.

In the main cavern, one could look out to the curtain of water that was the waterfall over them. Faramir had told him that the name “Henneth Annûn” meant “window of the sunset” in Sindarin. Éomer saw why as he noted the golden tint of the cascading water as the sun dipped lower in the western sky. It was a cave, but it was a fair place. He could see why Faramir preferred it over the comforts of the citadel of Minas Tirith.

Their first night together as bonded prince and consort, they had spent in the luxurious suite that had been Faramir’s all his adult life. Faramir had spent very little time in those rooms, however. In the large chamber, under soft linen sheets, Faramir and he had joined their bodies once more to consummate the vows they had declared before the king.

Holding a cup, Faramir came to Éomer as he stood looking about the cave.

“Here, my love,” Faramir said. “A drink after a hot journey.”

“Ale?” Éomer asked, taking the cup.

“Wine,” he replied. “It has been chilled down in the lower caverns. “

The wine was sweet and cold. Faramir always seemed to know just what he needed.

“Supper will be soon,” Faramir said. “I will take you to our chamber to rest and refresh ourselves.”

“That would be good.”

Faramir led him back, deep within the caverns, through narrow passages until that came to an entryway that was covered by a heavy curtain. Faramir pushed the curtain aside and stepped in. Éomer followed.

The chamber was not as big as Faramir’s rooms in the citadel, but it looked comfortable. There was a bed large enough for two covered in a great fur. There were candles aplenty and a table with ink and quills at the ready. Scrolls and books sat nearby on a shelf. Faramir lit candles to give the room a comfortable light.

“The men will bring your things to our suite of chambers. This is only our sleeping chamber. You will get a chamber of your own to utilize as you see fit.”

“Where do the others sleep?” Éomer asked.

Faramir smiled. “The whole of the cliff side is riddled with caves and chambers. The others sleep comfortably in these. There is a chamber off of the main that can house fifty men comfortably enough. However, these days we use it as a gathering place; a place to hold councils and discussions.”

Faramir took the empty cup from his hands as he leaned in to kiss Éomer’s lips tenderly.

“Will you be comfortable here?” Faramir asked softly.

“I could be comfortable in Mount Doom if you were there with me.”

Faramir chuckled warmly as he touched Éomer’s cheek. “That would be a feat, dearest Vasa.”

“You underestimate your ability to distract me,” Éomer replied with an amused smile.

Faramir touched his forehead to Éomer’s and for a time, they rested, looking into each other’s eyes in complete peace and comfort.

“Tonight, my heart,” Faramir whispered, “You will take me? Will you leave your seed inside me?”

Éomer took a shuddering breath and waited for his heart to slow down just a bit. “My prince, I will love you in any way you desire. I am yours to command,” he whispered back.

Faramir kissed him again. His lips were tender on Éomer’s, but Éomer hungered for his love. He deepened the kiss with a soft moan that could have been a growl. He sucked Faramir’s tongue into his mouth to bathe it with his own.

How he loved his prince. Éomer’s hands reached for him, sinking into his silken, ginger hair. His body pressed against Faramir’s sturdy frame. Éomer breathed in the scent of his love’s desire.

“Why must we wait?” Éomer whispered as he held Faramir still, their lips brushing sensuously. “Have we but a little time now? Will we be missed if we chose to lie together at this hour?”

Faramir chuckled softly. “Insatiable! You cannot wait until after supper? Are you not tired and hungry after our journey?”

Éomer nipped at Faramir’s lower lip and gave a low growl. “I hunger for you.” He then sank to his knees before Faramir, pushing up the heavy fabric of his cambric tunic, he reached for the lacings on his breeches. The very smell of Faramir’s desire grew strong, and Éomer drank it in as his hand brushed over the thickening member still trapped behind fabric.

“Vasa!” Faramir breathed out the endearment like a prayer. In response, Éomer nuzzle the ample bulge, feeling the heat of arousal through the material that still separated them. He then applied his fingers to the task of unlacing the breeches.

Pushing down the fabric carefully, Éomer exposed Faramir’s erect cock. He ran his mouth lightly over the heated length, letting his whiskers tickle as his lips brushed tender kisses to head and foreskin. This was not the first time he had tasted his mate. The first time had been that first night that Faramir had spent in Éomer’s chamber in the Golden Hall. After gently cleaning Faramir after their joining, Éomer had let his new lover sleep for a time. Then in the very deep of the night, Éomer had woken Faramir with his lips on Faramir’s thickening member, and he had not released him though he had cried for mercy. Instead Éomer had given him sweet mercy in release. He remembered how Faramir’s thighs had trembled and how he had called his name within desperate moans.

The taste of Faramir’s arousal on his tongue fueled his desire, and Éomer could not resist. He ran his tongue lightly over the silky flesh that trembled and jumped under his touch. His hand held Faramir’s heavy bollocks, rolling them gently. Éomer opened his mouth and took in the hot erection, sucking it tenderly.

Faramir gave a breathy moan; his hips making shallow thrusts. Éomer took the thrusts easily, suckling the salty moisture that flowed lightly from the tip. It would be soon that his love would spend himself in his mouth and Éomer was ready. He wanted to taste Faramir again. He wanted to feel the rich texture and taste the warm salty flavor. He wanted to smell the muskiness of the sweat gathering about his bollocks and between his thighs. He wanted his Faramir, his sweet prince of the night sky.

“Oh my sweet Vasa!” Faramir whispered and then groaned loud and long.

The length in Éomer’s mouth began to pulse as the bollocks in his hand drew-up tight against the base of the cock. The first burst of ejaculate filled Éomer’s mouth with salty warmth, and Éomer hummed in appreciation as he swallowed.

Faramir trembled lightly and groaned again as his climax claimed him. Finally the pulses grew weak and stopped. The ejaculate ceased to come and Faramir’s bollocks seemed to relax back down into Éomer’s gentle caresses. Éomer released the semi-hard cock with a final kiss.

“Insatiable!” Faramir said on the end of a near breathless sigh.

Éomer nuzzled the softening member tenderly. “Would you have me any other way?”

“I would have you any way you allowed me to have you,” Faramir replied.

“I would have you throw me down on your bed and take me like a conqueror,” Éomer laughed.

Faramir laughed as well as he gave Éomer a hand up to his feet once more. “Someday,” Faramir said with a light chuckle. “For now, I want only to touch you and love you in joy and peace.”

“My prince,” Éomer whispered before he kissed Faramir deeply. He valued Faramir’s tender touch above all things.

Part 2

Faramir left the chamber softly with Éomer napping before supper. He had finally pulled his consort to the bed and kissed him into submission. A quick and gentle hand to Éomer loins and he was Faramir’s to command. Faramir brought him to climax as he continued to kiss his delightfully full lips. He then pulled his clothing back in place and headed out to find his lieutenants. He didn’t have to go far. Anborn was waiting with Melgil one of the wardens of the guard. They waited in the large chamber before the passage to Faramir’s.

“And there you are, Pollywog,” Anborn said with an amused twinkle in his eye. “And you stink of sex!”

Faramir smiled warmly. “Éomer can be insatiable, but I do little to discourage him.”

“We did not train and bring you up to be a fool,” Melgil added with a jolly chuckle.

“And it was only a matter of time before I heard ‘pollywog’ again.”

Anborn put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “I would wish my prince to feel completely at ease in his own home. Thus I endeavor to surround him with the familiar.”

“So,” Faramir said, sobering. “What news from Emyn Arnen and beyond?”

“It remains the same, my lord prince,” Melgil replied. “Pockets of Orcs here and there, making night travel treacherous, but that is little more than a nuisance. “

“We should remain wary and keen,” Faramir advised. “Sauron is gone, but evil still pours from Mordor. They are leaderless now, but if one should arise in their ranks…”

“As improbable as it seems, it could happen,” Anborn said before Melgil could refute Faramir’s words. “Then a mob of united Orcs could do much more damage raiding villages and pillaging farms.”

“I can see your reasoning now, my lord prince.” Melgil gave Faramir a respectful bow. “I will strengthen the garrison to the east of the Arnen. Ten more men will bring the compliment to thirty.”

“If we have ten more to spare,” Faramir said.

“More come daily, following the path of the south Anduin, our brothers that had been cut off from us by the corsairs and the minions of the Nazgûl. “

“Be certain of their loyalty before you take them in,” Faramir said. “Many of those same corsairs and Haradrim that had plagued the land for so long may try to slip in among us as they are now adrift and useless.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tomorrow I hope to ride out to Osgiliath with Lord Éomer. I want him to see his city.”

“See it and despair the task set to him by our king?” Anborn joked.

“Anborn, you do not know my Éomer’s strength of resolve,” Faramir replied smiling.

“Obviously his resolve is strong enough that you smell of rutting before suppertime,” Melgil added, chuckling.

“What do the men think of Éomer?” Faramir asked plainly. Both rangers sobered.

Anborn spoke. “They know he is a Rohirrim and they have a few… ideas… about Rohirrim ways. I’ve heard no man speak ill of him yet…”

“But they think less of men from Rohan,” Melgil interjected. “You know this. They know that the blood of our northern cousins has little of what was distinctly Númenor. Some even judge them as a race of bumpkins from the high plains, no better than the wild men of the Dunlands.”

“The man who would mistake my consort for anything less than my equal as a man and a warrior would be a naive individual indeed.”

“As I said before,” Anborn said. “I’ve heard no man speak ill of your consort yet.”

“That is good,” Faramir replied to Anborn. “Let us hope none are so foolish as to start.”

“I must go check the men of the Guard before supper, my lord prince,” Melgil said, giving Faramir a quick bow and a smile. He moved off, patting Faramir’s arm as he passed.

Anborn moved closer to Faramir and spoke in a softer tone. “I did not want to say in front of Melgil,” he said, “but I have heard men of the Guard say things of the Rohirrim that I fear they may try to justify by your consort’s behavior. For example, this lustiness you have spoken of so lightly… There are those who believe that the people of Rohan are sluttish and indiscriminate. They breed like conies and have an abundance of bastards.”

“I’ve heard these tales told of the people of Rohan before,” Faramir said, “but usually whispered by old wives in the markets of Minas Tirith and not by Rangers of Ithilien. The first man I hear say such filthy lies, I will send back to Minas Tirith to tend a booth in the lower town market place. Let him speak his trash there with the idle tongues of old women.”

“Yes, my lord prince.”

Supper was mainly roasted wild pheasant, beets and brown bread; the rangers sat and ate, talking quietly amongst themselves. It was nothing like the laughter and loud conversations that could go on in the Golden Hall on a fine evening. The quiet murmurings made Éomer slightly edgy. He didn’t care for this subdued tenor among men at arms. It seemed unnatural. There should be laughter and loud disagreements and even louder jokes.

The ale was bitter, but he had been prepared for that. He had tasted Ithilien stout before. It was strong stuff and not for the faint of heart. Éomer knew he could grow accustomed to the taste. It was strangely refreshing.

He looked over at Faramir who was chatting calmly with his lieutenant Anborn. He had heard the man call Faramir “Pollywog” several times now. It was obviously a nickname, but one that Faramir had not yet mentioned to Éomer. He would have to ask Faramir about it later.

Just past Anborn sat more men who talked quietly and rarely looked up beyond their plates. Every now and again, Éomer felt eyes on him, but when he looked up and about all he saw were men whispering conversations between bites of bread and meat.

And although the dinner was delicious, Éomer found that his unrest was stealing his appetite. He looked down at his barely tasted food and frowned.

“Is the meal not to your liking?” Faramir’s voice was soft in his ear and he nearly startled out of his musings.

“The food is fine,” Éomer replied. “I find my appetite lacking. It could be fatigue.”

“Then we will retire early. I will see you well rested and ready. It has been rude of me to use you so…”

Éomer grinned at his mate. “Who used whom, lover?”

“Insatiable!” Faramir whispered.

Anborn stood and called out across the tables. “Rangers, men of the White Guard, we welcome today out newest member and the consort of our prince, Éomer, son of Éomund, a son of Rohan. The Elessar has given him the title of Earl of Osgiliath and he has served with great valor and distinction with the Horse Lords. His sister is the Queen of Rohan and his uncle was the most honorable Théoden King of Rohan who died in battle, answering Gondor’s most urgent call for aid.

“We bid him welcome to our ranks as a fellow warrior, a commander, and the joy of our prince’s heart.”

Anborn lifted his cup. “Hail to our Earl of Osgiliath!”

The men in the room stood, thumping a hand down to the wooden tables. They then lifted their cups and drank. It was not like a toast in the Golden Hall where all me would have shouted “Hail” in return, lifting their cups and tankards high before drinking.

There was much to get accustomed to here in the caverns of the Rangers. Regardless of their welcome, Éomer knew that he would never truly be one of them. He turned to look at Faramir.

Faramir was smiling gently at him.

“You are my love and my consort, my chosen mate. You belong here,” he whispered.

Faramir always knew. It was as if he could read Éomer’s heart through his eyes.

“They are so quiet on a good evening. No songs nor jokes?”

“Habit,” Faramir explained. “Long years of quiet warfare. We were always the few against many. Our silence was one of our greatest tools. It served us well. Even the secrecy of this refuge would be compromised by loud festivities. We never celebrate here. Henneth Annûn is a quiet place.”

Éomer nodded.

It was still early evening as they lay together on top of the bear skin that covered the bed.

“My mother died when I was five,” Faramir said softly. “She was only thirty eight, too young for a Dunedain. They say she weakened after my birth and never recovered. I remember her. She was small and fragile and she loved me. She held me often and sang to me songs from Dol Amroth.”

“I am sorry, my love,” Éomer whispered. “I lost my mother too when I was young. Not as young as you, however. Théodwyn died when I was eight. She caught a chill in the early spring, a year after my father’s death. I remember how the fever consumed her until she no longer recognized her own children at her bedside. She passed in the night, the fever too strong for her to fight.”

Éomer paused, taking a deep breath. “A chill… No, it was grief. She lost her will to fight because my father was gone from her side. She left Éowyn and me alone to live in a world that grew darker by the day.”

Faramir pulled him close, kissing his temple softly. Éomer nuzzled closer to him, pressing kisses to his jaw line and neck. He let his lips brush lightly over the short ginger hairs of Faramir’s beard. Faramir had elf blood in him from Denethor. It was this that impeded his beard growth so that his whiskers were short and sparse like a younger man’s.

Éomer ran a tender hand over his love’s face, feeling the soft lips that kissed his fingertips as they passed.

“Promise me, lover, promise that we will always be together…” Faramir whisper so softly that it was almost imperceptible. Éomer immediately knew why the request had been so softly spoken.

It was a promise that he could not make. He would die before Faramir and that was just a fact of life. “Hush,” Éomer whispered in response. “My heart is yours for eternity. No matter where I go, it will ever be yours.”

Éomer kissed Faramir’s lips gently, feeling the sweet tenderness of love flow through him. Before he had been excited to at last take his mate in this bed; now he just wanted to hold him and care for him. Éomer wanted to love him with gentle hands and tender kisses. He wanted to enfold him in a protective embrace while he filled him, joining their bodies to make them one heart and one soul.

“Let me love you, my sweet prince,” Éomer whispered against his ear. His hand ran softly over the swell of Faramir’s tight muscled, beautiful buttocks. Faramir shivered lightly in his embrace. He turned his body so that Éomer spooned him.

Éomer nuzzled kisses against Faramir’s neck and shoulders as he let his hands run over his smooth flesh. He pulled Faramir against him and tenderly fingered a nipple on his chest. Then his hand moved down, smoothing over Faramir’s flat stomach and curving about his sharp hips. Éomer ran his hand along the hard muscles of Faramir’s thighs as he breathed words of love into his ear. Gently, he guided Faramir’s leg, bent at the knee, towards the curl of his body, spreading Faramir’s thighs open.

Then Éomer’s hand moved back up Faramir’s thigh, coming around one of his perfect buttocks. Éomer’s fingers sought with tender strokes, moving over his perineum and tickling heavy bollocks. Then, at last, they touched the tight bud of Faramir’s entrance. Faramir sighed, his head falling back against Éomer’s shoulder.

Éomer’s fingers continued a soft massage of Faramir’s entrance as he nipped lightly at his shoulders. He reached back blindly for a moment, feeling for where Faramir had left the sweet oil on the small table near the bed. His long arm nearly knocked it to the floor, but Éomer caught hold of it.

With trembling hands, brimming with anticipation, he opened the small container and spilled some of its contents on his fingers.

“Sweet prince,” Éomer whispered again as he applied slick fingers to the tight bud. “Grant me entrance. Let me live inside of you.”

Éomer sunk one finger slowly in and Faramir gasped softly, whispering words in Sindarin. Éomer moved the finger slowly, savoring the feeling of the hot, soft passage. He was careful and gentle. Delicately, he added a second finger. Faramir began to move his hips back in sympathetic motion, fucking himself on the digits. Éomer reached in carefully, seeking the magic spot in his love’s body. He flexed his fingers gently and listened as Faramir moaned louder and shivered.

“Yes,” Éomer whispered. “Yes, just there. I will touch you there with my manhood. We will be one!”

Éomer added another finger, opening Faramir with care. He nuzzled into his ginger hair, breathing in Faramir’s scent. He then added more oil, coating his own erection as well. He placed his cock at Faramir’s entrance and slowly, patiently, pushed his way past the tight muscle. Faramir exclaimed, hissing words in Sindarin. Éomer held still for a long, trembling moment, letting both their bodies adjust.

Faramir sighed, his body relaxing noticeably about Éomer. Éomer applied tender kisses to his shoulder as he pushed in slowly. He pulled Faramir back against his chest, wrapping his arms about him protectively as he began to thrust with deliberate care. Éomer listened as his love moaned softly and whispered his name, speaking again in Sindarin. Faramir began to push back against him.

And on the end of every thrust, Faramir trembled and gasped, saying the Sindarin word for “good!”

Éomer began to lose himself in the feeling of their joining. He rubbed his forehead against the sweat-damp skin of Faramir’s shoulders and back. His hips moved with steady, deep thrusts now. His cock, surrounded by soft, tight heat, slipped in and out easily, touching deeply. In that moment, the world was full of love and light. There were no sorrows, and grief was washed away. They were one heart, one soul, joined and fulfilled.

He was lost inside his prince of the night sky. Éomer reached down and took Faramir’s semi-hard member into his hand and stroked it to firmness.

“Forever,” Éomer whispered against Faramir’s ear.

“Yes!” Faramir replied, trembling in his grasp. He then cried out, his head falling back against Éomer.

Éomer’s hand was covered in warm, wet ejaculate. He continued to stroke the softening cock. His hips moved in deeper, faster thrusts. Soon he was consumed by the light and heat of ecstasy. Éomer’s body ignited in orgasm, spilling deep within his love’s. It felt as if he was pouring his very soul into Faramir.

He trembled as the last of his climax released him, breathless and weak. Éomer wrapped himself about Faramir’s long frame and held on to him like a life line.

“Vasa?” Faramir whispered.

Éomer placed his lips against Faramir’s shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. “Yes, my prince?”

“Are you certain you will be comfortable here? There is a villa in Emyn Arnen, the traditional home of the stewards…”

Éomer nipped his shoulder a little harder to make him stop. “This is your home,” he said. “My home is wherever your home may be.” Éomer then laughed. “You think me some pampered nobleman or fop, that I would need the comfort of a great room and servants? I’ve lived more contented under the stars than I have under the roof of the richest halls.”

“I meant no slight, beloved,” Faramir said softly.

“I know.” Éomer snuggled against him.

“Tomorrow we ride to Osgiliath. You will see the city that is your domain.”

Éomer said nothing to this, and they lay quiet for a time, enjoying the warmth of their embrace. At last Éomer spoke.

“Why does the man Anborn call you ‘Pollywog?’”

Faramir chuckled heartily. “It was a name given to me by my brother and adopted by my mentors among the rangers. It means ‘young frog.’”

“I do not find that at all surprising.”

Faramir laughed again. “Sweet Vasa!”

“And you call me this endearment that I do not understand.”

“You are my sunlight,” Faramir said. “Vasa is the name of the sun in the ancient song.”

“Are you then my moonlight?” Éomer looked at Faramir from over his shoulder. “What then should I call you?”

“I would be your Rana,” Faramir explained happily.

Éomer thought this over for a moment. “I think I would prefer to call you ‘Pollywog’ instead.”

Faramir laughed loud and long.

Part 3

Two Moons and a Fortnight Later

He missed polado. It was only a simple farmer’s dish of spiced meats baked in bread with peas, yoghurt and potatoes, but it was a taste of home. Relaxed evenings on the high plains with his men and honey mead and the sound of the wind through the tall grass as their only music, these things had been blissful.

Osgiliath stank of Orc.

Éomer wore the leather armor of a ranger now. His green cloak was hooded as were all the cloaks of the rangers. And like the other rangers, a quiver of arrows was strapped to his back and he carried a bow across his shoulder. Éomer would have preferred a pike, but pikes are not easily concealed.

The horses were uneasy within the city and had to be kept just beyond the city wall. Firefoot was not so easily spooked, however, and Éomer rode his charger through the ruined streets, around crumbling walls, broken stones and decay. The rats were abundant and brave, running the streets in daylight and attacking any living creature that did not move for more than a minute. They had long since gnawed away the dead from the battles, leaving little more than armor, and scraps of bones.

It was a dead city, less than a ghost. And he wanted to hate it. His long blond hair was shorter now, just touching his shoulders. His first night, he had fallen asleep and awoke to find rats nibbling away his hair. Now he slept like the other rangers, with his hood up and closed about his face.

He wanted to hate Osgiliath from its shattered domes and collapsed arches, to its stinking waterfront and crumbling bridges. It was an unburied body left to decompose in the sun. Nevertheless, Éomer could not hate the city. When he looked on its broken bones all he saw was sorrow. He saw what it had once been in the skeleton of what was left.

He would rebuild it, and he would do it for love. It was a colossal task, and many had said it would be easier to forget the old city and just rebuild a mile south down the Anduin, closer to Emyn Arnen. But what was the challenge in that? No, Éomer would return Osgiliath to a living city, and it would shine as a monument to a love so strong and bright that his heart was forever eclipsed and held in the sweet-silver brightness of his lord prince.

He had Firefoot leading a cart of refuge out of the city. Hardly a noble task for a mearas, but when all of the other beasts had no courage to walk the ugly streets, he and his friend did what they must. Firefoot did not balk at the job, especially when he saw his master working by the side of the laborers who moved the debris and rubble from the streets.

This was the last load for the day. Storm clouds gathered in the eastern sky. There would be rain tonight. Éomer was glad. With every down pour, the city smelled less and less.

“My lord Éomer?”

Éomer looked to the young man who approached. He was one of the workers from the lands just northwest of Pelennor. Many of the people in that area had been displaced by war.

“Get this cart unloaded quickly. I want none to be caught in the storm that is coming. “

“Yes, my lord,” the man said, he then sprinted back to a small group of workers to muster their assistance.

None of the rangers had ever said a discouraging or demeaning word to Éomer. At the least, they had been respectful. At the most, they had been friendly and welcoming. He knew that Faramir and his lieutenants had had their concerns. Nevertheless, the crude and disrespectful behavior never came from the rangers or the men of the White Guard. The laborers from Minas Tirith and the lands beyond, however, were a different story.

He had overheard them on a few occasions. They were especially cruel every time Éomer made some unpopular decision. They called him a northern prairie bumpkin and a horse clod. They alluded to his parentage and the possibility that he was the result of incest because “everyone knows those horse clods are inbred.”

Éomer ignored them. None of them were warriors, just simple farmers turned to hard labor in difficult times. They were hardly worth his notice.

“Quickly,” Éomer called as the men came closer. There was a soft peal of thunder in the distance and the wind smelled of the rain soon to come. He stepped up to open the cart, taking the first load himself. He moved it to the heap.

Faramir was in Minas Tirith and he had been for many days. There was much for the Steward of Gondor to do and Éomer knew he could not begrudge him his duty. Éomer would have done no different in his place.

He missed Faramir dearly. The emptiness of his longing was hard to take; so he filled his days with hard work to keep his mind and body occupied. At the end of the day, exhaustion left little energy for yearning. He had Firefoot to keep him company, and there were the new friendships he had formed with Anborn and Benvor, an older ranger from beyond Emyn Arnen.

After the cart was emptied, Éomer had Firefoot lead it back into the city proper, parking it beneath the stable portion of a bazaar’s covered arcade. He then walked with Firefoot up to the higher city, away from the river valley and towards the ruins of the Rond Giliath. Their quarters were in a set of buildings that retained most of their walls, if not all of their roofs.

Thunder cracked louder after lightening lit a darkening sky. The first fat raindrops fell just as Éomer led Firefoot through the archway into their home.

The roof leaked, but that was to be expected. It was cold when it rained. Even Firefoot shivered. Éomer dropped a blanket over his shoulders and back.

“And Faramir asked if I would be comfortable in Henneth Annûn,” Éomer said with a lighthearted smile as he stroked Firefoot’s mane. “This place makes our quarters in Henneth Annûn seem like the finest suite in the king’s citadel.”

Firefoot whickered in response. Éomer saw that he was comfortable with a quick rubdown, hot mash and fresh water. He then left Firefoot to sleep.

Firefoot was the lucky one, Éomer reflected as he entered his own rooms. Water streamed in from several leaks. With a sigh, Éomer lit a candle in the room and then gathered up the bowls and vessels he used to catch the rain water. He placed them in their usual locations. He gave a small thanks to which ever god was watching over him. There were no new leaks.

Tonight’s supper would be stew, as it had been the night before, and the night before that. It was simple and filling. He stirred the smoldering embers in the fire place, bringing back to life the fire he had carefully banked that morning. He added fuel.

At last, the fire burned brightly and the left-over stew from the previous nights was warming over it. The rain was steady, and the plunking sound of the water in several bowls and pitchers was almost hypnotic. Éomer took off his leather jerkin and padding and sat at his small table. He had ale if he wished, but he drank water. The day had been long and hot and he was bone tired. In seventy-five days, they had accomplished so little. But Éomer was determined. If needs be, he would move every stone in the city himself for love of Faramir.

Lightning flashed beyond the window shutters and thunder boomed, shaking the dilapidated walls. Dust fell and Éomer sighed again, wondering if their lodging would stand against the pounding thunder in the night. And he missed Faramir. It did not matter to him if he was in peril or paradise as long as his prince was by his side. He closed his eyes and dreamed of silver blue eyes gazing into his own.

The sound of Firefoot’s soft restive whinny shook him from his reverie. He stood from the table. Turning to the door, he pulled his dagger reflexively.

“Vasa?”

Hearing his voice just beyond his door was enough to make Éomer heart quiver as joy over took him. He dropped his dagger and threw open the door. His dream made reality came in. His hood still up, Faramir was dripping wet.

“You picked a poor day to travel, my prince pollywog.”

Faramir laughed as he pulled back his hood and shook the rain out of his hair.

“Whoa!” Éomer laughed as he threw up his hands to block the flying spray from Faramir’s hair.

“But I am here now,” Faramir said as he approached Éomer, reaching for him.

“And you are drenched,” Éomer laughed. He moved to the curtain that divided the small room. “Change out of those wet things and come sit by the fire.”

“Can I not embrace my sweet Vasa first?” Faramir asked with a small pout.

Éomer laughed harder. “Silly pollywog!” He went to Faramir and pulled him into an iron embrace. “How I missed you!” He then released him and pulled him by the arm to the curtain.

“Now get dressed, you wet frog!” Éomer pushed him into the partition.

Faramir laughed as he stumbled through the curtain. Éomer listened as he heard sodden clothing and the metal of weapons drop to the floor. Soon enough, Faramir was out in only a tunic and breeches. He sat at the table and shared Éomer’s stew.

“This is terrible,” Faramir confessed after the first bite.

“Shut your fly-hole. It’s hot.” Éomer took another bite. “Be glad you were never tortured with my lovely sister’s cooking. It is well that she is queen. No one will let her near a cook-fire ever again.”

“Is it so bad?” Faramir laughed.

“Bad enough to turn an Orc’s stomach,” Éomer replied. “What news from the White City?”

Faramir took a drink of water to clear his mouth. “Wounds heal. There is rebirth and renewal. From the west, new alliances spring from the lands in Arnor. The treaty of Éorl has been renewed between the Elessar and your good sister. There has been much happening. And the reconstruction from the damage continues. The task looks daunting, but the laborer need only remember the task that you have sworn yourself to in order to understand that they know not true pain.”

“Mine is a labor of love,” Éomer said with a smug smile.

Faramir laughed again. “Yours is a job no one would wish upon even their most hated rival.”

“Then it is a testimony to Aragorn’s faith in me.”

Faramir eyed him with amusement, but Éomer only straightened his posture and looked satisfied.

“You are a clown!” Faramir exclaimed.

“I am your fool, my love,” Éomer replied. “So tell me more news. There must be more.”

“Ah yes, there is more. From Rohan, it is said your sister’s court fills with suitors.”

“That I could be there to see to her best interest,” Éomer said as he looked into the fire with a troubled frown.

“Éowyn is wise,” Faramir said kindly. “None are allowed so close to her. It is also said that Master Dwarf Gimli is among their ranks.”

Éomer looked up in surprise.

“His pursuit is not cold, I am told,” Faramir added. “He makes Éowyn laugh. Éowyn values laughter.”

“Promise me, Faramir,” Éomer said in a much more sober tone. “You are her dear friend, promise me you will go to her and give her counsel.”

“I will go as my duties allow, Vasa,” he replied. “But I see your concern is great. I shall request the time immediately if this will ease your troubles.”

“She is precious to me.”

“I will do what I can in your stead.”

Éomer picked up one of Faramir’s hands from the table. Tenderly, he laid a kiss upon his knuckles. “I have so many words I wish to say to you,” he whispered against Faramir’s hand. “They crowd my mind and tie my tongue. But, more than this, I have so much love I wish to make with you.”

“Then hush, Vasa. We are together now. Words are not enough for our hearts. Our lips are better employed through kisses.”

Faramir laid a hand behind Éomer’s neck to pull him close. Their lips met in a sweet kiss.

“I have missed that the very most,” Éomer whispered.

“Then come and get your fill,” Faramir replied with a smile.

Éomer took his invitation, and their lips met again in kiss after kiss. The storm settled to a steady rain as they held each other close and shared the gentle caresses of lips and tongues.

Éomer led his prince behind the room’s partition and to his bed. There he again rode his lover like a wild stallion. Éomer forgot his cares. He forgot the broken city outside the walls of his room. He forgot the ignorant, idle tongues of his laborers. He forgot the rain, the cold and the rats. For that night, there was only his beautiful Faramir and all the joy that he brought to Éomer’s heart.

In the morning, Faramir inspected the work done so far in the name of the king, and then he was gone, back to Minas Tirith.

Four Years Later

“Little brother, why are you sad?”

Faramir looked about himself in his dreamscape. The woodland glens before Henneth Annûn merged with the pass beyond the White Mountains, the way to Edoras. The river that ran between the two was neither the Anduin nor the Entwash.

Faramir wore his leather doublet of a southern ranger; his quiver and bow on his back. Across the river, on the far bank stood Boromir.

“I do not know,” Faramir replied, and although the width of a mighty river separated them, he knew that Boromir heard him as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.

“You do know,” Boromir replied, giving Faramir a hard stare. He never allowed Faramir to hide away his sorrow.

“I miss him,” Faramir said simply, and he knew that Boromir understood. Duty kept him from his love, his Vasa. Meantime, reports came from Osgiliath of progress. The city was cleared to the river. Homes were being rebuilt. Great halls were being repaired, and the Rond Giliath was in wood scaffolds. Daily, its great doom was being restored. Soon it would be polished in blue marble, the jewel of the city, once more.

Faramir’s days were spent in Minas Tirith, attending the needs of his king. As Steward of Gondor, he was needed. The realm was growing, stretching its borders towards the old domains.

“Go to him,” Boromir said simply.

Faramir looked at his brother incredulously. “I cannot. Ambassadors come from the northern tribes; my king needs me here. Our queen rests uneasy with her first child soon to come. Aragorn is alone!”

“Never, little brother,” Boromir said gently, “is Aragorn alone.” He then smiled. “Go to him… or one would think you have left the governance of all Ithilien to your consort.”

Faramir knew that the words were meant as both a joke and rebuke. They stung him deeply.

“How long since you last stepped on the soil of your domain?”

Faramir thought about this. It had been at least eighteen months and more since he had last been in Ithilien. Messages came to him from Éomer almost daily, keeping him apprised of progress and sending his sweetest love in words.

“Go to him.”

Boromir was gone from the river bank and Faramir’s heart broke. He searched the mist for his beloved brother, but he was gone. Old grief rekindled and awoke him from his dream.

“Go to him.” The message lingered in Faramir’s mind.

It was one thing to hear of the progress in Osgiliath. It was another to see it. Aragorn had wanted to come, but he dare not leave Arwen alone as she drew closer to labor. Faramir went only with a small escort of the White Guard.

The great arch that led into the main city had been restored. Men worked about its stone lintels, carving the very story of the city into the rock. Faramir noticed among the carvings, the profiles of heroes. Boromir’s face was among these.

His party rode through the great arch, past the tall carved portal. The city was alive again. Many of the laborers had taken up residence. Merchants had followed to serve their needs. Trade houses asked daily to be granted land contracts for developing the riverside. Osgiliath now threatened to eclipse Emyn Arnen as a port city on the Anduin.

He found Éomer just beyond the city center, towards the great bridge, surrounded by engineers and architects. Firefoot was not far from his master, as Faramir expected. Éomer did little in Osgiliath without his trusted companion.

The sun shone on Éomer’s long blond hair, tied back from his face as it often was in work or in battle. He frowned as some large plan or diagram lay before him on a wood table. Men pointed here and there on the parchment, all the while speaking to the Earl of Osgiliath. Éomer looked up and their eyes met. The scowl on his face dissipated quickly, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

When Faramir got him alone at last, he could not keep his lips from Éomer’s. He drank him like wine, holding him in an iron embrace. He then threw him to the bed and took him. A short time after, they lay out of breath, content and sated when, at last, Éomer spoke.

“I knew you would take me like a conqueror someday.”

“I had promised you,” Faramir chuckled.

“You have kept that promise… very nicely. Yes, nicely done, my prince pollywog.” Éomer laughed.

Faramir climbed over on top of Éomer, lying full upon his hard body. “Would you wish me to prove my rule over your beautiful body again?”

Éomer laughed more as Faramir applied kisses to his throat, shoulders and collarbone.

“I missed you, Vasa,” he whispered.

“Can you stay?” Éomer asked. “Or will you be gone with the morrow?”

“I’m staying… at least for a while.” Faramir lifted his head and looked down into Éomer’s honey eyes. “I need you.”

“And I you,” Éomer replied.

Three days later, messengers came to herald the news of a son born to the Elessar and his queen. Faramir rode out that same day to attend to his king’s needs during this hectic time.

Part 4

Four Hundred and Twenty Days Later

When he heard word that his consort had taken ill after a trip back to Henneth Annûn, Faramir left the White City with no escort and rode without rest. He arrived to find Éomer recovering from a fever. The fever had been strong, but Éomer had proven stronger.

“You worry too much,” Éomer had said as Faramir rested his head on his shoulder. He sat on the edge of Éomer’s bed.

“I’ll not lose you, Vasa,” Faramir had whispered.

He stayed then, throughout Éomer’s recovery. At last they were together in their home.

“I will return to my work in Osgiliath in a fortnight,” Éomer said as they watched the setting sun shimmer through the water fall. “Will you go back to the White City?”

“No, Vasa,” Faramir said softly as he nuzzled against Éomer’s neck and shoulder. He drank in his love’s fragrance. “I’m with you. We will go to Osgiliath… and we should visit Edoras as well. Éowyn is worried and Géoden would like to see his uncle.”

He watched Éomer smile after he mentioned his nephew. Géoden, son of Gimli, was a handsome child, if not a little short for his age.

“I catch a sniffle and you grow leery and apprehensive enough to follow me about…”

“Do not mock me, Éomer,” Faramir said growing serious. Lifting his head, he stepped out of Éomer’s embrace. “I am Prince of Ithilien and I do as I please; if that means staying by the side of my consort, then that is what I shall do!”

The smile was gone from Éomer’s face and his voice lowered to an angry whisper. “You do as you please, my prince, but I need not be watched or coddled. Do not mistake me for some frail damsel. Just because I am your consort doesn’t mean I am your dainty wife.”

“I would be a fool to mistake you for such.”

Éomer’s nostrils flared as he looked at Faramir with a gaze made of liquid fire. “Good,” he said deliberately, walking closer with a menacing glare. “I would hate to think that I am the consort of a fool; or worse, a fool is Prince of Ithilien.”

Éomer took a step back, giving Faramir one last glare. He then turned and stalked away. Faramir closed his eyes and sighed, his fury turning to irritation and melancholy. Éomer was a proud man. Faramir realized how his concern had been misinterpreted as belittlement. However, it was not to coddle Éomer that Faramir wished to stay by his side.

It was Faramir’s lonely heart that wanted to be with his Vasa. He tired of this separate life, divided by only a few short leagues from the man who was the love of his life. In this, Faramir wanted to hate Osgiliath. The city would tear the very heart from him. It had been working on that since long before that day.

“No more of me,” he hissed in anger to the city that had been the center of so many of his woes.

He found Éomer in his private chamber, penning a letter. His brow was still creased with the stormiest of frowns.

“I stay by your side because I would die if I were to be parted from you any longer,” Faramir said as he walked through the curtained doorway. “I stay by your side because my heart hurts. Too long have I been parted from my love, my Vasa. Too long has my heart gone without the joy of your sunlight.

“I hate Osgiliath!” Faramir hissed.

Éomer put down his quill and stood. He came about his desk to fold Faramir into his strong embrace.

“Do not say that, my heart,” Éomer whispered against his ear. “Osgiliath is my love for you. Can’t you see that? I would make it a jewel for you; bright and beautiful, like you are bright and beautiful. I’ve poured all my passion for you in every stone. It will stand for a thousand years hence, declaring that Éomer, son of Éomund, shall ever love Faramir, son of Denethor, though the world may end and the stars fall from the sky.”

Faramir held Éomer tightly to himself. He said no more.

Fifteen Years Later

Osgiliath stood strong and beautiful, the shining jewel of Boromir’s visions. The blue marble dome of the Rond Giliath could be seen from Minas Tirith when the noonday sun struck it. Lords and merchants made pleasure homes along the northern river from closer to Cair Andros. The royal family docked a pleasure boat on the Anduin there.

In the center of the great square stood a statue of Boromir, son of Denethor. He held his horn in one hand and his other hand rested on the hilt of his sword. His shield was strap to his back, and he looked as he did the day he had left Osgiliath for Rivendell.

“Remember this day, little brother,” he had said to Faramir, and Faramir had remembered.

The streets of Osgiliath were lined with flowers and fruit trees. The evenings were filled with music. It was once more the home of gracious civilization. It was the crown jewel of Gondor.

The Prince of Ithilien and his consort, the Earl of Osgiliath, however, chose to live just an hour’s ride south in Emyn Arnen, the ancestral seat of the Steward of Gondor.

The Elessar came to visit, riding to Emyn Arnen with his son, Eldarion. The prince came to renew his friendship with Géoden of Rohan, who was spending the summer season with his uncle to learn the finer points of being a warrior, a horse lord, and a rider for the Riddermark. The young man had brought with him his own charger, Galerunner. Galerunner was a descendant of Snowmane. And because Géoden was short, his legs barely fit the stirrups, but he rode the large charger boldly and without fear. Éomer was proud.

It was a fine summer evening with a sweet breeze coming off the river. To the north, the distant lights of Osgiliath shone like diamonds on the velvet darkness of the night. The Elessar took forth his old pipe, filling it thoughtfully. He lit it with a small twig of kindling from the fire.

The boys were in the stables talking and seeing to Galerunner. Éomer could guess that they would be bothering poor Firefoot’s rest as well. Géoden was enamored with his uncle’s blue roan. Firefoot would tolerate the young men. They meant no harm.

“The queen wishes to celebrate the jubilee in Osgiliath,” Aragorn said as he sucked on his pipe, causing the embers of Southfarthing to glow brightly. “She wanted to come herself to ask the Earl, but there was too much planning to be accomplished. She had to stay in the White City for a while longer.”

“A pity,” Faramir said softly. “Arwen is welcome to retreat here, if her heart desires. The cities are demanding. There is peace here in Emyn Arnen.”

Aragorn smiled. “We thank you. Now, what say you, Éomer of Osgiliath?”

Éomer bowed gracefully. “The queen’s wish is my desire, my lord. Tell me what needs to be done and it shall be done.”

Aragorn’s smile grew. “By your hand personally, no doubt. Be at ease, my dear friend. Your consent is all that is needed from you.”

“That you have above all else, my king,” said Éomer. “But be that as it may, I will muster the White Guard to cleanse the Anduin of corsairs and minions from Minas Mogul for leagues in every direction. I’ll let nothing disrupt the joy of the queen’s jubilee.”

Aragorn chuckled lightly. “As reliable as the sun rising in the east, I shall never doubt your resolve, Lord Éomer.” Aragorn looked to the north, up river. “My only regret is that Gondor could not have more men like you and the steward.”

“My lord,” Faramir said lightly. “If Gondor had more men like us, there would be fewer sons for the future.”

Arogorn nodded with a smile, but he reached into the pocket of his long blue and silver velvet tunic. He pulled forth a pale blue stone that shone with an inner light that was independent of the fire and lanterns that burned on the villa’s water porch, overlooking the river.

“Gandalf gave me this to give to you,” he said.

The White Wizard was gone from Middle-earth, departed with the elf lords to the undying lands. His presence was greatly missed by all who knew him. Éomer knew that Faramir and Éowyn were two of many who lamented Gandalf’s retreat on the western sea.

“What is this?” Faramir said as he looked down on the stone. Éomer came to stand at his shoulder to gaze on it as well.

“Take it, Lord Prince and Earl of Osgiliath. Hold it in your hands together.”

Faramir reached out slowly to obey his king’s command. Éomer’s hand joined his readily, and they took up the bright stone. Together, they cupped it, and its light became brighter still.

“This is the last gift of Fëanor the creator of the palantíri. Captured from the light of the holy trees, it is only a sliver of one of the sacred jewels, but its power is great. The Narsilion endures each age in harmony. If there had been discord in this house, the mighty star that lived in the stone would not have allowed me to enter.

“I believe Gandalf knew that the house of the Steward of Gondor would need an heir… a child born of the stars and not of the flesh. I know not how this will happen, but I know in my heart that it will.” Aragorn closed their hands over the stone.

Two Years Later

To the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien and to his consort the Earl of Osgiliath, son of the Riddermark, came a babe, a son, who arrived in a small silver punt down the Anduin. There were those who said that this small miracle arrived not in a punt but upon the bronze and silver shield that had been carried by Boromir of Gondor. In this vessel with the tiny newborn were the mended horn of Boromir, and the heavy leather gauntlets of Théoden, items thought long buried and lost with their owners.

They named their son Théboron.

The End.

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